


Oh but it would be so easy

by FlyingLizards



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt Harry Potter, I want them to fall in (something) with each other dammit!!!, M/M, No character bashing, POV Alternating, Possessive Harry Potter, Possessive Voldemort (Harry Potter), Self-Indulgent, but not for long!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26313946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingLizards/pseuds/FlyingLizards
Summary: “You are alright.” came the soft voice again from up above. He recognized it, then.Harry Potter.Lord Voldemort tried to move, but his muscles were made of lead. He called upon his magic and commanded it to attack, but a force pushed back onto him and he choked.The fight at the department of mysteries brought more consequences upon them that they could have ever imagined.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 41
Kudos: 263
Collections: Started stories





	1. Chapter 1

It had not been his intention. 

Lord Voldemort always planned ahead, carefully, fastidious about the details. In complete control of every agent that interfered at every step of his plans; plans that he mapped perfectly and everybody, friend or foe, followed as a guide, willingly or unwittingly.

Yet, as always, no matter what he did, no matter the information at his disposal, no matter the rules of the world, Harry Potter came and ruined everything by sheer luck alone.

Gravity hesitated if Harry Potter was the one falling.

Luck favored Lord Voldemort.

Luck favored Harry Potter.

  
  


He came onto his senses with the firm grip of hands at the sides of his head.

“It’s alright.” Someone soothed him. A body so close to his, the heat of it like a hearth, a firm press at his hips; he was being straddled. 

Lord Voldemort realized he was lying down while someone carefully cleaned his face with a wet rag. The coppery smell of blood thick and overwhelming to his senses, he could taste it at the back of his tongue. His throat was dry and his usually flawless vision was blurry.

“You are alright, ” came the soft voice again from up above. He recognized it, then.

Harry Potter. 

Lord Voldemort tried to move, but his muscles were made of lead. He called upon his magic and commanded it to attack, but a force pushed back onto him and he choked.

“Calm down, Tom.” Harry Potter hissed at him “You are safe —now, don’t try to move, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Lord Voldemort tried to speak but only a dry heaving sound came out of his lips. Then he felt relieved as cold water was being slowly poured in his mouth, slipping a bit at the corners. A thumb caught the drop sliding down his cheek and it felt almost like a caress.

His chest heaved and he tried to speak again “You...dare…”

“Don’t speak, ” the boy shushed him “I’ll tell you, alright? If you don’t remember I will tell you.”

he felt the soft press of lips on his forehead, a foreign sensation but a recognizable one “Now, sleep.”

Lord Voldemort knew no more.

*

“He is rather pitiful, don’t you think?” Whispered Harry. Hedwig hooted at him, clearly in disagreement. The summer heat dying down after the sun hid, Harry kept his window open to let the air in. Hedwig perched at the frame, by his side. The smell of her was not particularly pleasant but Harry found it immensely comforting. “I can feel him, even now,” he confessed.

*

It had been a week after Sirius' death and Harry was numb. And when he wasn't, the grief was so strong he felt himself drown in it, overwhelming as it was, it left him rooted on the spot. He’d come to his senses after, on the floor and his heart beating as if he had run a marathon.

He couldn’t handle it.

He couldn't, not anymore.

Vernon had received him with the same enthusiasm he showed every year, but there was a new look in his eyes that Harry recognized easily. He’d seen it before, many times. The first time he had been standing in a dueling arena, and he saw it in the wide eyes of Justin Finch-Fletchley when Harry spoke parseltongue for the first time in public; fear, revulsion. 

He saw it again when Umbridge was being dragged away by the centaurs.

Once they got out of the car, his uncle turned to him. Vernon's eyes flared and he huffed like a bull at Harry, brusquely opening the door and striding towards the house, leaving Harry alone and perplexed in the back seat.

The next day, Harry in a daze walked to the kitchen and almost stumbled into Vernon, who halted abruptly, the inertia making him stagger.

His uncle paled and strolled away.

It was perplexing.

Harry knew how Vernon would have normally reacted; he would have shoulder checked Harry, he would have shouted at him, he would have loomed, his hands would have twitched, grabbing at the air as if it were Harry’s neck.

Similar situations happened one too many times, when Vernon would take a look at Harry, he’d stutter, hesitate, and flee. When usually he would have just… pushed him, with his meaty hands swatting him like Harry was paper, or like the stick thin teen he was.

But now he didn’t dare touch him, he grumbled and flinched and gritted his teeth, and if Harry walked by he would storm out of the room instead of roaring at Harry to disappear. And Harry didn't understand what could have caused it. As far as Vernon knew, nothing had changed.

He couldn’t have known about Voldemort’s return, about the blade that hung on all of Harry’s acquaintances, loved or not. -Everybody could be used against Harry, even the Dursleys, he knew.-

The dawning realization came when Petunia cowered into herself when their eyes met, as if Harry had raised his hand to strike her, and the abrupt pure undiluted fear in her eyes was enough to make his head swim.

It was _him._ Something was wrong with Harry, and everybody could see it –even muggles could.

Everybody but him.

He’d stare at the mirror and see Lily’s vibrant eyes stare back at him. They didn’t hold any love, not like he pictured when he imagined her looking at him.

Her eyes sat on heavy purple bags, on a gaunt and pale face. Harry wondered if Sirius’s death had robbed him of something important, something he had not been aware he possessed before.

The wind made the leaves from the tree outside rustle softly, he could hear the tv on the ground floor and his aunts cackled at it. Harry breathed in, his eyes pricked and he felt in his fingertips Sirius’ robes as he saw himself grabbing him, seizing them tight and pulling him back to him. He could feel the warmth of his godfather clearly in his arms.

He heard Bellatrix’s deranged laugh clearly ringing in his ears, cruel and deafening, reverberating on the walls and his chest _burned_ with horrid intensity. Filled with coals and the need to hurt-

His room’s door slammed back onto the wall as Harry sprinted towards the bathroom and vomited on the ceramic floor. He heaved out bile and realized he had not eaten anything at all the whole day. 

“Boy!” bellowed his uncle, his steps thundering in the hallway. “What is this scandal?!” He pulled Harry’s shirt and Harry stumbled and fell on his ass, breathing shallowly in an effort to breathe at all.

Vernon stared down at him, like he once did when Harry didn’t reach much above his navel.

“ARE YOU DRUNK?!”

“I-”

“YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE SHITE, AFTER ALL WE’VE DONE-!”

Harry blacked out for a second. He felt himself float and his extremities tingle like thousands of ants were walking under his skin.

The ringing in his ears started to dwindle and Harry realized that he had not been able to hear until then.

When he came back Petunia was hovering over him, a foreign expression of worry on her face “I think he is sick, Vernon,” she mumbled. Harry’s cheek throbbed in dull pain. “Look at me, look at me!” She commanded when Harry’s eyes glazed over, “You will clean this mess and then you’ll go to bed. No arguing!”

Harry blinked back at her, wondering where Dudley was.

“Answer her, boy!”

“Y-yes aunt Petunia,” he stammered.

She nodded sharply and stood up, hesitated slightly before whispering “I’ll bring you a rag and chlorine. Stay there.”

*

He thought himself dreaming. Reality around him was fragile and flawed, he registered tremors that shook him at the periphery of his awareness, distant, and he couldn’t be sure he was awake at all. He thought he was in his bed, the blankets pulled high and covering his nose, but he couldn't be sure.

He could as well be lying in the hard stone of the Ministry of Magic, glass strewn around him and his body quivered and twisted as Voldemort settled inside his skin.

His face was wet and his nose clogged; he had been crying. 

He felt a pounding headache throbbing in his skull and the side of his face burned. 

Harry was sweating but he was so cold, and he wanted to _die._

He blew his nose in the sheets for a lack of tissue and buried his face on the pillow. Hedwig was making distress noises from her cage but Harry couldn't find it in himself to care. He could hear his heartbeat loud as if he was pressing his ear in someone’s chest, and that person's bones were made of paper.

His mind was sluggish and blank, he shrank and hugged himself with the vague intention of sleeping.

There was pain, his oversensitive skin couldn't stand the scratch of his sheets, almost like sandpaper on a burn.

From the tip of his toes to his hair he felt a chill, and a keen sense of loss; he felt empty where that unknown something had been ripped out of him. Like claws sinking into his guts and taking away something so precious.

Harry whimpered, he was so, so _cold_.

He was leaning on something comfortable, a sweet presence curled around his neck. Its weight settled heavy and comforting on his shoulders as she hissed in his ear. He caressed her soft scales and hissed back.

The Daily Prophet on the desk announced his comeback, dread dripping off the printed words. He was content, the world feared him again.

Harry opened his eyes abruptly, jerked himself up, stumbled out of bed and hobbled towards his closet; he opened it and looked at himself in the mirror.

The face that he found there was his, the scar, the eyes, the sick countenance and-

And a purple bruise on the side of his face, where it was throbbing hot and swollen.

Someone had hit him, possibly when he passed out.

It had been Vernon, he knew, Petunia didn’t have the strength. In anger, maybe? Trying to wake him up? probably. It didn’t matter.

Harry took in a ragged breath and dragged himself back to bed, he kneeled at the edge of it and sobbed, guilty and nauseous at what he had just done.

At the sheer relief that it had brought him.


	2. Chapter 2

He had forgotten to put shoes on, he hadn't noticed; he could barely feel the carpet beneath his feet.

Harry felt lightheaded, his hands were trembling faintly as he padded out of his room. 

Hermione had told him once last year that those were symptoms of low blood sugar, back then when the nightmares had begun and the stress had put him off of food.

It was afternoon and Uncle Vernon was, thankfully, at work. 

Harry's face was still swollen, and the skin on the bruise delicate, the light touch of his clothes when he put them on was painful enough to make him wince. And the movement of his muscles as he winced hurt enough to make him whimper. 

He really didn't want to encounter anyone today, after his episode yesterday, Dudley would surely mock him and Harry didn’t know how he’d react to his taunts.

He hadn’t even looked in a mirror.

So he waited until the house was silent, to the time when both Dudley and Petunia usually went out and had their fun under daylight.

Out of habit, Harry walked down the stairs careful of not making any noise. His head was still pounding and he didn't think he’d be able to make abrupt movements anyway. His hands gripping the railing tightly.

A wave of nausea made him falter at the last step. 

He felt stupid, so stupid; now that Voldemort was oficially back he should be in top shape, ready to fight at a moments notice. And yet here he was; at the edge of passing out. 

Harry reached the kitchen and stopped on his tracks, he held his breathing as to not make a sound. 

Wide eyed, he stared at Petunia’s silhouette, hunched on the table, head held between her hands, her shoulders shaking slightly, and sniffling so quietly. 

She gasped suddenly and buried her fingers in her hair. Her chest heaved and for a moment she looked so delicate, as if she took in too much air her slight frame wouldn't be able to hold it in and she’d fall apart. 

Harry was out of his depth, adrift. Feeling like shit in every possible way. His vision blackened and he took a quiet breath. It took him a few moments to regulate his breathing into a restful inhale and exhale. Petunia gasped again.

“Oh, Lily,” she whimpered, and Harry felt himself miss a step even though he hadn't been moving, his stomach flopped down to his feet. “Lily, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she sobbed, her voice raw and nasal. 

He wanted to speak, to ask _what she meant by sorry,_ to rage _oh? so you are sorry now?!_ but he only took a slow step back, and then another, focusing on his rapid heartbeat, as to not hear something so private. 

Something he had never even considered could ever happen. Incredible and so painful. 

His aunt's voice was muffled but nonetheless her words sounded clear. 

“Oh lily, I hate you, I’m sorry, I loved you, Lily, Lily…” 

*

“Hey girl," Harry greeted softly, Hedwig thrilled at him “I need a favour from you. I've never asked you this before, but I really need you to do something for me," she cocked her head curiously, as if asking _what is in your mind_. Harry smiled at her, or tried to, at least “I need you to… to steal a chocolate bar, fly over and take something sweet, please? I wouldn't ask you this if I had any other choice. Im sorry.” 

Hedwig cooed at him and Harry knew she understood.

His voice was thick when he said “Thank you.” and released her out his window. 

Later he’d eat in shame a half of an already opened chocolate bar, and hide the rest inside of one of his drawers. 

*

At supper Vernon thundered in, his face purple as he flopped on the table. He didn't compliment Petunia’s cooking as he usually did and ate in sullen silence. Dudley had made a quick appearance to grab a plate and take it up to his room.

Petunia’s eyes were red and swollen, but she smiled lovingly at her son anyways as she served him. There reigned silence and Harry had never felt more uncomfortable in this house before. Even in the days he had been jealous of the love they professed to each other, and resentful of the disdain they showed him.

The Number 4 house at Privet Drive had never felt more oppressive, not even when they had locked him in this same room, with bars on his window and a cat flap on his door.

Not even when his room was actually a cupboard under the stairs.

He ate his respective sandwich on his room’s floor. Tasteless on his tongue and sitting heavy in his gut. Harry couldn't stand it, couldn't wait for the two weeks he had to remain there for the blood wards to settle to end and get out.

The urge to leave crept on him suddenly. Leave not in the physical sense of the word. 

Surprisingly, it was not the outside that called to him. 

The first time, he had done it by accident, he had lost himself in his head and had slipped over onto someone else’s. And now it felt like a crack had broken over thick stone walls and something leaked from it. And Harry could just lean in there and listen, and watch, and feel.

Feel the anger, that all encompassing anger that scorched him from the inside out and burned everything around him, so freely, so intoxicating. So suffocating.

No numbness.

No grief.

Harry focused on Voldemort's echoes, thrumming so far away, and from inside him.

It swam up to him, easing the nausea and the guilt away, numbing the feeling of loss slightly.

Harry breathed in then, and he could finally feel the air enter his lungs and the remaining taste of the sandwich in his mouth. 

He let himself get lost in the whirlwind that made up Voldemort, the intensity of it, how his feelings abruptly shifted from one to other, from rage to euphoria to loathing to amusement. 

He let go suddenly, and the weight of what he had just done crashed onto him. 

Instead of guilt, or disgust as he should have felt, all he could feel was rage.

It was maddening the sheer unfairness of it all. For a stupid self fulfilling prophecy. 

For the delusions of a megalomaniac, Harry had been left with _nothing_.

Hedwig hooted in distress, flapping her wings, catching Harry’s attention and derailing his train of thoughts. He stood up sluggishly, grunting, and went to her.

“I’m sorry. I’m alright,” he soothed her. and then, to convince himself, he repeated: “I’m alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all might be thinking “oh but harry don't be an asshole what about Ron and Hermione??” 
> 
> and yeah Harry wth man they are not nothing.
> 
> But let’s take into account that Harry’s not in the best mental state right now. When you are there you can’t see these things. You only feel helpless.


	3. Chapter 3

It felt like he had been walking under the sun forever. The asphalt emanated heat in waves, producing water mirages at the distance, the air was too warm for it to be any measure of comfortable.

He groaned.

Harry had been avoiding the Dursleys with more enthusiasm than usual, and had left the house directly after sneaking away some breakfast, with the intention of going back only when he knew they’d be busy watching telly, so he could enter through the back door unseen. For hours he had been wandering around in the scorching heat, willing time to move faster. 

He had the vague hope that when the blood wards settled, and he was allowed to leave, this disgusting feeling of wanting to rip out his skin would fade away. This almost feverish state he felt in even when he was asleep.

The park was empty as it usually was at this time. Although this summer had not been nearly as hot as the last year’s, Harry had seen few children milling around. Perhaps it was lunch time already, he thought, the sun was high enough.

A shadow passed the edge of his vision and his hand went to the pocket where he kept his wand. His eyes fixated quickly on the culprit;

A mangy black dog was poking his nose in the bushes.

Sirius, he thought, lightness in his heart. He let go of his wand slowly and smiled at the dog.

Oh, Sirius had come to visit him, had he done it behind Dumbledore’s back?

Then, the floor under him vanished; what he felt couldn’t have been other than that, with how his stomach jumped up and dropped the same way it did when he let himself free-fall on his broom.

The realization that Sirius was dead, and that was nothing more than a regular stray dog hit him as if someone had pulled his collar from behind and smashed his head violently on the hard, unforgiving ground.

It felt as if the universe thought Harry its little plaything, putting him under constant torture. Harry inhaled shallowly.

He inhaled again, ineffectively, for air wouldn’t go down further than his throat.

He couldn’t breathe, he pressed a hand to his chest and stumbled to a near bench and sat on it, clutching his shirt as if he could touch the heart beneath it. He tried to breathe in deeply but the sobs coming out of him wouldn’t let him.

He felt lightheaded and his vision obscured and he knew at once that he'd pass out. Panicked at the thought, he searched within himself for that something, that something _other_ that did not belong to him but was familiar.

So familiar, too familiar.

He was so pissed off. _Him_ , not Harry, at something. It rolled out of him in ripples, a constant state of distaste. Manageable, known. The weight in his chest eased out of Harry, slowly.

Birds chirped shrilly and stopped abruptly, they flew away, wings flapping loudly.

He was calm now, just incredibly pissed off; he could handle pissed off, he knew what to do when he felt this annoyed. He threw a look at the stray dog that had lied down in the shade and turned away.

As he walked he didn’t let the doubts about if Voldemort knew about what he was doing rise. He shouldn’t be worried, though. Harry was not opening that two way channel; he wasn’t even peeking through it. He was just… feeling what leaked through. Focusing on it.

He let himself let loose on the reprieve that it brought him of this feeling he could not describe, of a painful sorrowful longing he didn’t know. Indescribable as it was, Harry wondered if this was only the grief of losing Sirius acting up in a different way that he was used to.

It could be; he hadn’t known pain like this before. His parents had been something distant but Sirius had been real, and there, and he felt so loved by him. Nobody had looked at him with that much love and longing before.

Harry knew what it looked like, when people were delighted to see him, when they loved him. Of course he knew, he’d seen it before, with the Weasleys, with his friends. But nobody had looked at him before like he was the only source of light left in the world, like Sirius had sometimes when he thought Harry unaware.

He forced himself to no think of him, just on the rolling waves of soft annoyance. Alien as they were, he knew them well.

He looked up ahead and saw Dudley staring at him from the distance, when their eyes met; his cousin flinched and turned away, walking as fast as he could.

Harry’s rage, fueled by Voldemort’s annoyance at something unknown, flared up, Harry gritted his teeth and walked behind Dudley, faster than his cousin.

Dudley heard him and his steps evolved to a light trot, Harry’s did the same.

Distantly, with bitter amusement Harry noted this to be similar to the beginnings of many Harry Huntings.

Harry sprinted abruptly and grabbed Dudley’s wrist, tugging at him and making them both stumble. Dudley threw a wild punch but Harry had seen it coming and dodged it. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at Dudley before he could try to hit him again.

“Stop!” he ordered. Dudley froze.

“You can’t use it,” he shook his head, “they’ll expel you!”

“You are right, I won’t. But I want to talk with you.”

“I can't,” he said, voice strangled.

“No, you will.” Harry growled, angry, so angry. He knew this feeling didn’t belong to him entirely, but it was easy to let himself feel it, to let it fill him, every corner of him.

“Harry.” he begged, and that was fear in his countenance, in the way his hands shook and his feet readied to run away. The sight of it was so strange that some of the rage Harry had been feeling withered down. He eyed his cousin and realized he was still pointing his wand at Dudley’s chest, his knuckles white at how tight he held it. His jaw had been so tense it hurt slightly to relax it.

“What is wrong with you?” Harry whispered, perplexed, wand still in his hand but no longer aiming at Dudley. His cousin kept glancing at it and at everywhere, refusing to look at Harry’s face, at his eyes. “Dudley,” he said firmly. His cousin flinched.

He was so much bigger than Harry, so much stronger physically, he always had been, probably always will be.

Dudley knew how it felt to squeeze on Harry’s bony arms, to grab at Harry’s hair and push his face into the mud, glasses and all. He was so familiar with the sound of Harry sniffling quietly in the dark of his cupboard.

He shouldn’t look like he was about to cry if he spent a second longer in Harry’s presence, as if Harry had been the one to torment him through all his childhood, violently and cruelly.

“Dudley!” he called.

“Stop it!” Dudley exclaimed “Stop doing that!”

“What?!” he asked sharply “I’m not doing anything!”

Dudley wasn’t listening though, “Stop it! I’m sorry, Harry, I’m so sorry, just please,” he begged, “ _Please_ stop.”

It was so strange, so, so strange. Harry gulped. He saw sweat shining on his cousin's brow, he felt some sliding down his back.

“What do you mean?”

Dudley was still not looking at him; he closed his eyes and rubbed his face, shaking faintly. Harry eyed him, troubled, before speaking again.

“Dudley, please, what do you mean?”

A light summer breeze rustled the leaves of distant trees, somehow, they sounded so loud.

Dudley took in a ragged breath and whispersed hoarsely.

“It’s li-like last year, with the- the mentors,”

“Dementors,” corrected Harry.

“But,” Dudley swallowed “but it isn’t like that at all, I don’t feel _sad,_ I feel… _”_ he doesn't say more, he licked his lips and played with the hem of his shirt.

_“_ Like what?” prompted Harry softly.

“Like I hate myself, when you are near, I just suddenly _hate myself so much_ ” he confessed staring at his feet, he sounded a few notches down of hysterical “I’ve never felt that way before,” he mumbled. 

That’s impossible, Harry thought, he surely at some point would have hated himself. It was impossible not to do it, sometimes.

This was Dudley though, he reasoned, it made sense, spoiled as he was.

Then what he said caught up to him.

“When… when I’m near you?”

Dudley nodded stiffly.

“Or when I see you, or when I hear you,” he said “Harry please stop it, please, I-I’m sorry, for everything, just-just _stop,_ ” his voice broke like it had done so many times during puberty. It took Harry a second to understand what it meant that it did. 

Harry nodded, wanting to end this conversation quickly, deeply disturbed “Alright, I will,” he promised “But I can’t… do it instantly, so, um, stay away from me for now, alright?”

Dudley nodded glancing quickly to his side “Ye-yeah. I will. Bye.” He turned around and the only thing that made it not be called escaping was the fact that he was not running.

Harry stayed rooted on the spot.

He couldn’t deal with this, whatever it was, whatever it meant.

Far away, Voldemort had seen something that amused him. Harry focused on that, instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made the chapters this short because I wanted to update daily, but life became weird and now im so busy *sighs*
> 
> glasdfadsh do y'all get whats happening???


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [sayuri_tamano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sayuri_Tamano) for betaing this and being wonderful and kind and very very cool.

Sniffles, grunts— high pitched like a bat’s— sound right in his ear. Hermione’s face is fear stricken as Dolohov’s wand digs into her neck. 

Sirius is laughing as he falls. Harry runs, but the air is thick and he is so _slow—_

A wail, sharp and heartrending. It breaks through the fog in Harry’s head. 

He wakes up.

Harry sprang up, clutching his sheets and heaving. He felt his heart thrum, pushing at his lungs, growing bigger and stealing all the space beneath his ribcage, stretching out his chest, trying to break through bone— he couldn't _breathe._

_No,_ he said to himself. No _, no, no, no. He won’t do it._

A sob escaped when he inhaled, and it seemed so _loud_ , bigger than what this room's walls could contain. 

Suddenly he yearned for his cupboard's safety, and that feeling sickened him, so he reached inside and beyond. 

It flowed through his veins, scalding, soothing, painful, numbing, all these conflicting things at once and Harry let himself fall into it; he finally felt the air rushing through his nose to his throat to his chest. His surroundings were clear then, or as clear as they could be without his glasses on.

Harry winced and rubbed his forehead.

The guilt tasted bitter and he choked on it. He sniffled quietly as was custom. 

Hedwig remained asleep.

*

The day went by sluggishly, as if the stream of time had been corrupted and decayed into a river of mud. It was the weekend, and the heat was unbearable while tension ran high. Harry stole a banana the second Petunia left the kitchen, and to further avoid the Dursleys, he decided to do some gardening. 

It was something he had to do anyway, but Aunt Petunia had yet to come screech at him for forgetting to root out weeds. He hated doing it, but he felt in need of a distraction.

Outside, the smell of grass was intense, freshly cut and warmed by the sun. It was nothing like the smell of Hogwarts’ meadows, but it did remind him vaguely of the Quidditch field. 

Harry went towards the shed to find gardening gloves. The last thing he needed were microscopic splinters all over his finger pads.

He started pulling the yarrows he found growing on Aunt Petunia's new “Lavender Garden” project that Harry maintained— so really it should be _Harry’s_ “Lavender Garden” project. Honestly, with all the gardening he did, his grades in herbology ought have been better just based on sheer experience. Alas, Venomous Tentaculas were a lot feistier than Aunt Petunia's tulips—

Harry heard a wail coming from behind him, loud and short, silenced abruptly the moment his attention shifted to it. He turned uneasily towards his aunt’s leafy bushes, and observed them with a careful stillness, waiting for the sound to come again. When it didn't, he walked towards the hydrangeas. Crouching low, he ruffled through them half heartedly, all too aware that it was impossible for there to be a baby hidden within the foliage.

He stopped and stared at his gloved hands, fear creeping like spiders up his neck.; he was hearing things. And unlike a giant snake in the pipes, this time the sounds came from inside his head.

Harry started to pull the weed that grew under the stems, pretending that had been his intention all along. Maybe, if he didn't act on it, it couldn't be counted as madness after all.

*

Harry flinched before it happened, attuned to his uncle's moods since he was young. 

“THIS HAS TOO MUCH SALT!” Vernon bellowed, grabbing the offending plate and throwing into a wall. It broke on impact, shards falling everywhere, leaving a still steaming puddle of soup on the floor.

Petunia whimpered. “O-oh, I’m sorry. I- _I’m sorry.”_

Dudley’s eyes met Harry’s and he mouthed the word _please._ But Harry ignored him, too out of his depth. He crouched quickly and started picking up the pieces. He felt as someone crouched next to him and saw Petunia, pale, her eyes shining, wet with unshed tears, as she wiped away the remains of the meal she prepared. Vernon panted by his table seat, inmobile, his arm still extended. 

Then, he stormed out of the house, banging the door with such force that Harry feared he had pulled it out of its hinges. Petunia flinched. 

They heard the car as it started, and as it drove away.

*

Later Dudley stopped Harry on his way up by grabbing his wrist and releasing it quickly, and begged. “Please, please stop it.”

Harry stared at him, wide eyes, and so, so tired. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he admitted.

“BULLSHIT!” Dudley shouted, punching the wall and then wincing in pain. “Bloody _fuck,”_ he cursed. Harry took a step away, and then another. He ran towards his room and locked himself there.

Hedwig hooted at him, distressed, flapping her wings as much as she could in the enclosed space, and Harry realized that he had not let her out in two days. He strode towards her, then opened the cage and his window. 

“Go. I’ll leave the window open for you. It's not cold at night anyways.”

*

Harry didn't dare come out of his bedroom. He skipped meal time and kept his ear alert to any and every noise, every creak and argument. 

Vernon bulldozed his way through the days, grumbling and fuming, and Petunia cried in hidden spaces. Harry avoided her more eagerly than he avoided Vernon, but he picked up the slack after her, did the dishes while upstairs the bathroom’s tap water ran to muffle her sobs. He vacuumed the rugs, while she cried in the garden shed.

Dudley was never home anymore. 

Harry followed suit, spending time in the park until he was sure the Dursleys were either busy eating or out of the house.

Sunday afternoon, after the sun set Harry opened the door to see his uncle frowning at the tv screen, silent and stolid to the laughs coming from the box. He closed it quietly and made his way towards the stairs.

Petunia chopped vegetables in the kitchen, rhythmically, like a clock. _Chop chop chop_ , marked the seconds it took Harry to walk away from the door as he tried to ignore the soft sniffles between sobs and sharp gasps. He knew there was nothing he could do about it. Nonetheless, he hesitated before walking towards her instead.

From the corner of his eye, Harry sees Vernon twitch. He stops.

His uncle grumbled at Petunia to be quiet, barely loud enough to be heard above the sound of the box. It was clear to Harry that Petunia heard him, as the chops begin to come quicker, and the sobbing mellows out.

Harry bit his lip and shifted his weight to walk away. Bugger it all, pity is not enough to motivate him to remain within their presence any further.

“I said _be quiet!_ ” Vernon growled, just low enough for it to not be a shout. Harry froze involuntarily.

In his head, he imagined his uncle's mustache moving like a cartoon’s, swaying from left to right as he spoke -a funny thing to picture when that rumble had made his heart beat so hard he could feel it in his fingertips.

The back door opened softly and Dudley slipped in, stopping in his tracks once he saw Harry. He paled.

Something clattered on the sink, breaking the stretched silence that Harry had not noticed until then, suspended in panic as he had been. Vernon stood up. “I AM TRYING TO WATCH THE TELLY SO QUIT THAT RUCKUS!”

Petunia stalked out of the kitchen, face red and jaw tight, and threw a dishrag at his face. “I’M BEING AS QUIET AS I CAN! SADLY FOR YOU, COOKING MAKES _SOUND!”_

Vernon huffed like a bull.

“DON'T YOU DARE SASS ME! I’VE BEEN BREAKING MY BACK ALL WEEK AT WORK AND ALL I GET FROM YOU IS WHINING AND DISRESPECT!”

“I WORK ALL DAY TOO! I KEEP THIS BLOODY HOUSE RUNNING!” she shrieked.

Harry’s uncle laughed mockingly, opening his arms as if to show the entire living room.

“THIS HOUSE IS A _MESS_! THERE ARE ANTS ON OUR BED!”

“WELL MAYBE IF YOU DIDN'T BRING MIDNIGHT SNACKS TO OUR ROOM, YOU FAT WHALE, THEN PERHAPS-!”

A strike, loud like bones cracking. The next second Petunia was falling. Vernon’s hand remained open as he panted. Harry was paralized, unable to move beyond shaking where he stood. In a second, Dudley was there, catching his mother, moving faster than Harry has ever seen him move before.

Shock.

Vernon’s face was stuck in an expression of surprise. Slowly, he examined his meaty hand as if it were a strange object. He inhaled shakily, expression morphing to something similar to horror. He whimpered and let his arm drop. He looked at his wife, then at his son.

His son was not looking at him, he was glaring at someone else. 

Vernon’s eyes followed Dudley’s and they fixated on Harry, his face went purple as he growled “ _You.”_

The _smack_ sound was still echoing inside Harry’s skull, his eyes lingered on Petunia’s face. He didn't see Vernon move until he was being dragged by the collar to face his uncle.

“ _You.”_ He said again, and there was loathing there, one so deep Harry couldn't be sure he had ever been subjected to it before. He tried to pull away futilely, too light headed to put any real force behind his attempts.

Vernon dragged him away. He then opened the door and pushed Harry onto their lawn. “You will leave. you will leave _now_ and you will not come back” he growled, pinning him with beady eyes to the wet grass.

“Vernon-!” pleaded Petunia, stumbling out. Vernon turned to her, hand squeezing the door knob until it creaked, and grabbed her shoulder to keep her in place.

“Can’t you see? _Can’t you see what he is doing to us!?_ ” He hissed. 

Petunia flinched, but didn't argue further. She nodded jerkily and scampered inside. Vernon threw Harry one last hateful look before closing the door.

Harry stared unbelieving as he heard the lock being slided into place hastily. Surely this couldn't be happening, not after so long, not _now_.

_They knew they couldn't just kick him out. The blood wards hadn’t been settled yet!_

His vision was spotty after he stood up, the world reduced to the white door in front of him. This could not be happening, he thought, dismayed. 

Harry wobbled forwards and banged on the hardwood with both fists.

“Let me in! Let me in!” he shouted, voice breaking. “LET ME IN!”

They couldn’t do this- not now. Not _now._

The door swung open, as if the wind had forced it. It banged on the wall, rattled hung photos. Dudely stared at him, eyes wide. Vernon appeared from the side, a shotgun in his hands.

“Go away!” He roared. “Go away you monster!”

Harry laughed, incredulous. Vernon pointed the gun at him, face grim with determination. He’d shoot, Harry realized. He’d actually shoot him.

The manic feeling snuffed out and Harry inhaled sharply, his face hardened.

“Do you even know what you’ are doing?!”

“Getting rid of a pest,” Vernon answered. “Protecting my family from the likes of _you.”_

_No No no nonono_

“You'd set me to die!”

“We should’ve let you drown! We should have let you crawl into the street when we first got you!”

“Vernon!” gasped Petunia. Harry's eyes fixated on her.

“You! You were crying for- for my mother,” he choked out desperately, pleading. “She was your sister!” 

“Shut up!” interrupted Vernon. But Harry wasn't looking at him. Petunia was sniffling, shaking as she wrapped her arms around herself. She looked away. 

" I- I’M YOUR _NEPHEW_ !" begged Harry. “He'll kill me, just like he killed her. Aunt Petunia _please._ ” 

“DON'T LISTEN TO HIM!” shouted Vernon. “Look at what he's done to us! All these years! Look at what he's made us become! What he’s made us _do_!”

Petunia placed a trembling hand to her swollen cheek, took a shallow breath.

She looked at Dudley and said, "His wand. He'll need his wand." 

Dudely caught up to what she meant a second later and ran upstairs. Once back, he practically threw Harry's wand at him, followed by Hedwig's cage. 

Harry caught the cage, opened it quickly and examined his owl, she nipped his finger but was otherwise okay. He heard a click as his uncle took the safety off.

"Now. _Leave_ ," growled Vernon.

Harry stared at the gun's muzzle, at his uncle's red face, his aunt's, and finally his cousin’s. Dudley bit his lip and took off his hoodie in two quick movements, shoving it at him. It smelled of cigarettes. 

"It- it’ll get cold later,” he mumbled, looking down. 

Slowly, ignoring the feeling of the floor crumbling from beneath him, Harry crouched to pick up his wand, hugging the hoodie, disbelief and resignation warring in his chest. 

He faced the cage to the side, hands shaking.

“Fly to the burrow, girl. I'll meet you there,” he said. Hedwig hooted and flapped her wings in distress. “It’d be easier for me if you went ahead. Please?” he encouraged her softly. She nipped at his fingers before taking off.

Harry gave himself a moment to see her part. His uncle’s heavy gaze coerced him to turn around and walk towards the street. Curtains were drawn open and he saw the faces of his neighbors behind glass. Harry glared at them. 

He’d go to Mrs. Figg’s house, and from there he’d contact Dumbledore. Perhaps now they’d let him stay at Hogwarts, since he didn’t have a home anymore.

As much of a home Privet Drive could be.

He heard the door closing at his back. Final, real.

For a moment Harry could finally feel beyond the tightness of his neck, the cramps in his stomach and the permanent vertigo that had clung to him since his return. The summer night was warm, and along the smell of mowed lawns came the faint stench of scape pipe smoke. 

He felt his heart, pulsing all throughout his body, and couldn't hear anything beyond blood rushing. 

That moment, like sudden rain, he felt it. The wards fell.

And then, _joy._ Exhilarating, brutal in its intensity. 

Harry laughed and pain shot up his scar. 

The street filled up with cracks, like starting cars. Like the sound _still_ rattling inside his skull- his uncle’s palm brutally meeting his aunt’s cheek. 

Cloaked figures surrounded him, some quiet, some jeering. A sound stood up from the others, a femine giggle, bubbling out of Bellatrix’s throat, turning into taunting cackles- 

Harry stared at her coldly, clenching at Dudley’s hoodie. Bellatrix smiled wide when she glanced down and saw him gripping the fabric with white knuckles.

Rage fueled him, but it was soon blinded by the manic buzz running through his veins. 

From above, Voldemort descended, dressed in shadows that, as they settled, took the appearance of a robe. 

Harry could feel it as if it was his own. The cruel mirth, the feeling of victory. The slight disappointment at how easy it had been. 

Harry took a step forward. "Hello, Tom." he said. 

A spike of annoyance shot through him, though not his own. Voldemort smiled. 

Harry could hear people talking, the sound carrying from the muggles' houses. They had an audience beyond the Death Eater’s.

"Harry," greeted Voldemort silkily. “I must say, I am sorely disappointed. Taking our history into account, I had hoped for some struggle. This really puts a damper on my plans for the year.” Harry let out a snort. Voldemort ignored him. “The wards failed, hm?”

Harry chuckled bitterly, “I got kicked out.”

Curiosity, soft, hidden behind the storm of excitement. 

Voldemort raised a brow. 

"I see, quite tragic isn't? The muggles you love so much are the ones at fault for your death," he mocked. 

“I am still dying by your hand, am I not?” Harry retorted. A wave of satisfaction ran through him at the notion, it took him a second to realize the feeling didn't come from him.

Harry wondered if Petunia was watching this, if she recognized the monster standing on the asphalt.

“Indeed, Harry," he grinned, smugly. “I suppose you will not fight for your life? All of our duels have been interrupted before.”

 _Like I have any other choice_ , Harry thought. 

Like a whip, his arm rose ahead and a silent expelliarmus shot out of his wand. Voldemort's spell collided with it, and through a chain of light their two wands connected. He pushed his will forward, took a step closer. 

He focused on their connection, and for the first time that summer, instead of taking what leaked out of Voldemort’s mind, he sent on his own feelings; his grief, his fear, his self loathing. Voldemort faltered and took a step back, barely a twitch in his expression beyond that. Harry smirked, suddenly hopeful- he just had to stall until the order or the aurors arrived. He just had to endure a little more.

A shriek came from the side, the words unmistakable and the last thing he heard before the world vanished.

“ _AVADA KEDAVRA!_ ”

The last thing he saw were Voldemort’s eyes, wide in surprise.

  
  


Harry woke up, aware he was naked but not feeling cold. The weakness that weighed down on him all these days had disappeared —his limbs were light and his mind clear. He wished to be clothed and suddenly he was, for some reason wearing Dudley’s hoodie. It was giant on him. 

It took him a second to recognize where he was, King’s Cross, drained of color, a pure white to the point it seemed to be shining. It seemed bigger like this, somehow; deceivingly infinite. 

Shrill and unmistakable, Harry heard a baby’s wail- familiar, and for reasons he was unaware of, the sound filled him with deep sorrow. He crawled towards the bench immediately to his right. Slowly, hesitantly, he peered under and recoiled at the sight.

A baby of unnatural proportions, skinned but alive, squirmed on the ground. Small bits of it stuck to the floor, which were stained pink where the creature had touched it. Harry felt himself well up with pity and disgust. 

_“What happened to you?”_ He whispered mournfully, and reached for it.

A few steps behind, he heard a gasp.

_“Harry don’t-!”_ Came Sirius' voice, too late.

When Harry’s skin touched the baby’s arms, his finger pads burned. Harry heard a sickening sizzle before scalding pain shot through his arm, paralyzing him.

Harry screamed.

  
  
  


The first thing Harry became aware of was the scratchy fabric pressed to his cheek, followed by faint tremors. Then he recognized that he was not the one shaking, but the person holding him. He heard weeping rumble from inside a man’s chest, bubbling up into clear sobs above him. Remus cradled him as he cried, holding Harry tight.

Harry felt confusion and then _rage_. Alien, familiar. He pushed it down and tried to speak, but his tongue laid heavy.

He tried to move again, unsuccessfully. Undeterred by this, he groaned. The sobs stopped.

“Ha-harry?” Remus’s voice trembled. “Harry!” 

His old professor stared down at him. Their eyes met and for a second they just looked at each other. Harry blinked, and Remus let out a wet laugh. “Harry!”

“Harry!” Professor Mcgonagall gasped, her hands reached to cradle his face. He had not noticed her as she hovered before. “Merlin’s beard, Harry!” She breathed, pulling them both, Remus and Harry, into an uncomfortable hug. “Oh! this is a miracle!”

Harry sat up and mumbled, “I think I’m gonna hurl.”

“Merlin’s saggy balls!” Tonks exclaimed from somewhere. Harry tried to focus his gaze and found himself staring at a lump on the street. A blur, really, dark like the shadows unde the lamp post light . Harry recognized instantly the lump as the corpse of a Death Eater, even without his glasses.

The world went dark again, starting from its edges and quickly fading all light. He heard Remus’ voice calling him in urgency, but all he could feel was crippling nausea and the distant echo of burning ire.

*

It took Harry two days to be dispatched from the infirmary, which he spent mostly asleep and being cried on by Remus, Hermione, and Mrs. Weasly. At least until Madam Pomfrey had enough and kicked them out. 

The second he could stand on his own, he was led directly to the seventh floor.

*

“Harry, my boy, I need you to tell me what happened,” Professor Dumbledore said softly, sitting in front of him. They had forgone the desk and chair, and instead, the professor had chosen a more comfortable setting for this conversation: two velvet armchairs by the fire.

The bitter taste of nutrient potions remained on Harry’s tongue, and only for that had he accepted the candy Professor Dumbledore had offered him once he entered his office. It did mix well with Lemon drops, Harry mused absently, eyes roaming everywhere but on the man in front of him. 

It had felt like years since the last time he had been here. There were no traces of the mess that Harry had made of it.

Now, every artefact was in one piece just like the first time he ever set foot in the room. Cluttered, but somehow organized. The walls were illuminated half by the fireplace and half by the moonlight seeping through a window; the dichotomy of it amused him for reasons he was reluctant to think about. Harry met the headmaster’s eyes.

“I don’t remember,” he lied.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of what I have titled inside my head as The First part of this story. I'm so sorry it took me so long to update, remember those days I used to update my fics within a time frame of less than five days? lol fun times.  
> This is the longest chapter so far!!! how did it happen  
> [Made a tumblr side blog for fanfiction stuff](https://queen-elizardbeth.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> *shrugs* one of those things you want to read but can't find anywhere so you gotta write it yourself.


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